


The Waning of Summers Past

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:44:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel realizes that Maglor is still alive. Celebrian goes to seek Nienna's aid. Nerdanel makes a deal with Manwe for her son's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waning of Summers Past

“I saved Maglor, Eönwë. I shall save my mother.”

 

Summer had suddenly become a turncoat, allowing a storm leeway during what should have been the hottest week of the year. 

As molten gold, rich and heated, it tamed the winds and the incessant churning of the sea.

 

“Will accomplishes what skill cannot."

 

She would find a way to repay her debts in full. But she did not dare swear an oath on that. Oaths, as their family had discovered, were dangerously harmful in the long run. 

 

“The golden youth of Thranduil Oropherion that involved Dorwinion, dances and deflowering of all and sundry."

 

When the dark gaze of his lover betrayed the brilliant lustre of despair withheld, his body fell into the abyss of passion and his drained form slumped down into the waiting embrace. 

 

 

“You risk too much,” Celebrían remarked sadly as she took the familiar, bony, fine-veined hands between her own. 

She did not receive an acknowledgement, but the proud voice soared over the cruel dissonance of the winds and the ship that was silhouetted against the gathering darkness of stormclouds continued its spirited endurance. 

“I think I should return to the city and beg Manwë again,” Celebrían said, tears gathering in her eyes as the teeming masses on the harbour began shouting slogans that drowned the clear voices of cousins separated by water and fate. 

“My dear ‘Bría, you cannot change the course of malice that has seeped into the very air we inhale.” 

Nerdanel’s voice was composed and the statement sounded as if it had been rendered in the warm vicinities of a homestead rather than on the seashore where they awaited the final stroke of destiny to befall their family. 

“Oh, but what can I do?” Celebrían turned to face her in anguish. “We must do something! Is there anything, anything at all that will help, milady? I will do it.”

Nerdanel shook her head crisply, her eyes inscrutable and her jaw set. Celebrían cursed her and cursed herself before cursing everyone she could think of, including the proud fools trying to outwit fate. Finarfin and Eärwen had rushed to seek Varda’s succour. Celebrían wondered if anything had come of that endeavour. If anything, she was grateful that her grandfather had, for once, set aside his lethargy and taken measures to salvage matters.

“Bría!” 

It was Eönwë. A deep friendship and mutual respect had grown between the Maia and Galadriel’s daughter after the traumatic events that had resulted in Maglor’s rescue at the cost of an unborn child. 

“What can we do?” Celebrían asked, rounding on him. The leaguer of clouds was broken and torrential rain poured down from the angry skies. The winds churned the sea, delighting in the ever rising cascade of waves. It reminded her vividly of another evening that had been frighteningly similar and yet different. 

“We must do something!” she reiterated.

“Manwë hastens to Alqualondë. His wrath…” Eönwë sighed and glanced at Nerdanel. “He has not taken Macalaurë’s defiance lightly.”

Nerdanel did not reply, though her eyes flashed in anger. Celebrían placed a nervous hand on her arm and tried to offer solace. The hand was brushed off indignantly. Celebrían fought the urge to bawl aloud about this damned family’s pride to anyone who would listen.

“They say Olórin is aboard the vessel,” Eönwë continued. “His counsel may prevail upon Galadriel to ask for pardon.”

“Do you truly think so?” Celebrían asked wearily.

Eönwë shrugged noncommittally and turned his gaze to the teeming multitudes that had gathered there to watch the final stroke of the doom of Mandos.

“My dear Bría, you look terrible!” Hórëon informed her, looping an arm about her slumped shoulders.

“I am aware of that. In fact, I can safely assure you that my looks shall worsen as this day proceeds,” Celebrían said cuttingly. Then she took a deep breath and asked him, “What news from Valmar?”

“Ingwë has a scroll for you.” Hórëon handed an elaborately sealed scroll and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “I shall seek news of our King and return to you.”

Celebrían watched him disappear into the crowds before untying the scroll and perusing its contents with increasing incredulity. Her mother’s voice faltered and broke mid-song. When she looked up in horror, the white sails had been shredded by the rain and the winds. They billowed forlornly as skirts about an aged crone. 

“Lord Manwë comes!” the heralds called and soldiers were making a path through the crowd to where Maglor stood.

Celebrían read the letter from Ingwë once again before tucking it away into the bosom of her gown and turning to face Eönwë, whose noble visage was a study in fear.

“We must see Nienna,” she said quietly. “Will you take me to her?”

Eönwë looked at her for a moment in a manner that implied that he did not think her sane. She did not care. She had to try anything that offered the least spark of hope. 

“I saved Maglor, Eönwë. I shall save my mother. Will you take me to Nienna? I have my reasons, I swear.”

Eönwë turned to Nerdanel, who nodded mutely before stepping to her son’s side. 

“Come, ‘Bría.” Eönwë offered his hand. 

Celebrían gazed but once more upon the torn, white sails before following him at a run to the carriage. 

 

He frowned. Summer had suddenly become a turncoat, allowing a storm leeway during what should have been the hottest week of the year. 

“The King used to tell us that storms in summertime never bode well.” One of the most pessimistic of his subjects told him as they shoved the haystacks onto bullockcarts that would be taken to the barns. But the rains had offered them no quarter and the men struggled to work in the calf-high mud of the inundated fields.

He offered a tolerant smile and asked, “Mean you my father, the King?” 

“No,” a sagely shake of the rich, brown tresses. “I mean his father. Your father was our prince.”

He nodded politely and walked away, quelling the sudden outburst of memories that threatened him. The prince – his father had been called by those who loved him, including those fiercely loyal subjects he had ruled over. Rain pattered its insolent drops on his sodden cloak and hood, but he continued his rambling walk, trying to make sense of all that had been and all that was. 

“Summerstorm!” A dearly loved female voice exclaimed. 

His heart leapt when he saw her, as had happened from the very first time he had seen her. She sat easy and proud on her stallion, a gift from Mithrandir who had bred the beast from his own steed that had come from the bloodline of the noble Mearas. She was without saddle and spurs, as was her wont. But with a length of leather, she gently led his mount. 

“I am ever so grateful for the ride,” he said frankly. He stayed where he was, enjoying the play of rivulets that ran down her beautiful features. Her gown was sodden and he could see every detail of her body as if the linen did not offer a barrier. He feasted on the sight, devouring those features that he seldom saw thus exposed in the daylight. She shifted in her seat, so that her hair obscured the vision. He chuckled at her unusual modesty and came forward. When he slid his fingers up her feet, along her wet calves, pulling up the drenched gown as the hand moved upwards, she sighed and gave in.

“Summerstorms are unusual in these parts,” later she said as they rode towards his home. 

His senses warned him again. Something was wrong. But she spoke again of lighter matters and he was pulled away from his brooding. Seldom had they the chance to meet thus during the day and they were determined to make every moment count. When he waved farewell to her at a discreet distance from his homestead, his wretched heart bled again for their separation. With a self-pitying sigh, he turned away and rode on.

There, in the courtyard, waited the person whose respect and regard meant everything to him. He cursed himself for the umpteenth time before dismounting and letting the groom lead his mare away. Then he hoisted a carefree, arrogant smile on his unwilling lips and strode forward to the waiting figure.

“You shouldn’t ride out in such a storm.” He was chided gently.

“I am sorry,” he offered dutifully, before pressing his lips to the wine-warmed, yielding ones before him. It was so easy to deceive everyone, but it was awfully hard to live with that deception.

“What do you think is the cause of the sudden turn in weather?” he gestured to the storm ravaging their lands.

“Perhaps the ship has reached west,” was the terse answer. He sighed on seeing the anguished, brooding expression on his companion’s face. 

“Elladan,” he whispered, drawing him into an impulsive embrace. “They will prevail. My father is tenacious, as are the rest. And Galadriel said they have nothing to fear, given that she has fulfilled her part of the bargain.”

“I know.” Elladan turned his head to kiss the wet nose before him. “Yet, Laiqua, I fear. I miss them very deeply. Nothing has remained the same after the war.”

Laiqua swallowed when his lover referred to changes after the war. But he put on a confident face and drew Elladan’s arm into his own before leading the way into the mansion saying, “You are never alone. You have me, always.”

He meant it. But he could not mean it. He wondered what penance would ever suffice to bring him salvation.

 

The voice that rose to meet her song was one that any listener would always bear in their hearts. As molten gold, rich and heated, it tamed the noise of the winds and the incessant churning of the sea.

“My cousin,” Galadriel murmured in shock, her eyes wide and flared with deep emotion. 

Mithrandir blanched and whispered something to Círdan, who nodded and strode to the huddle of gloomy shiphands. Sweat broke on Elrond’s forehead as he felt himself carried along with the golden waves of a voice he knew and loved. A hand crept into his own, providing an anchor to his body even as familiar warmth brushed his thoughts in reassurance. He turned to nod his gratitude for his friend’s succour.

“He lives yet.” Galadriel’s voice was cold steel. Her mien turned grim with resolution and she joined her voice to his. 

“We were tricked into believing that he was dead,” Elrond whispered, trying to quench the flame of searing pain and love that had been nursed within ever since he had heard tidings of his foster-father’s death.

“It would be but one among many deceptions,” Erestor said quietly. “But he lives and that is a sign of hope.”

Celeborn listened in pained fascination to the song of the cousins who had once been lovers. Glorfindel’s hand patted his back in reassurance.

A crack of lightning was followed by a deafening thunderbolt. Elrond clutched Erestor’s arm reflexively. His friend’s fingers came to brush away a strand of Elrond’s hair that had fallen onto his cheek. When the hand lingered on his face for a moment longer than was necessary, Elrond’s mind fell into the hoarded memories of his past. 

 

Thunder frightened him. It reminded him of the harsh, loud quarrels between his parents when he had been a child. Another peal of the wrath of the skies had him sitting upright in his bed. Elros and his foster-father were away hunting. When lightning flashed once more, heralding the next clap of thunder, he did not waste time on second thoughts. With the sheets wrapped around him, he leapt out of the bed and flung open the door. He flinched as thunder rattled the skies. Pulling the sheets tightly about his frame, he knocked on the locked door across him. When it was opened, he did not even wait to explain his purpose before he made for the disturbed bed and leapt in, tucking the sheets around him. 

Grey eyes met his sullen gaze concernedly before widening in realization. An amused voice commented, “I am a poor companion for the night. My reactions to nightmares are noisier than the thunder.”

Elrond did not reply, settling for a pleading, impetuous look. A hand brushed his tousled hair away from his face and lingered with paternal affection on his cheek. Elrond did not flinch at the next clap of thunder.

 

 

“Deep thoughts?” Thranduil asked Elrond, his eyes fixed on the disturbed skies. 

“I had not known that Galadriel possessed such a fine singing voice,” Elrond replied absently, his mind still dwelling on the memory of that stormy night.

“She does. But I don’t think her body has the energy to match her will,” Erestor said worriedly. “Unlike…” he cleared his throat and continued bravely, “unlike her cousin, she has not trained in the art, after all.”

“Will accomplishes what skill cannot,” Thranduil remarked, his emerald gaze coming to rest on Galadriel’s form. “She lives by that rule.”

“I must disagree.” Gildor interjected. “She does not live by any rule.”

Erestor cursed, though it was not a reaction to Gildor’s declaration. Glorfindel had rushed forth to help Galadriel, who looked drained of life. Maglor’s song grew less sure as it continued alone. His voice no longer held the proud confidence it had earlier, instead turning tentative and worried. 

Elrond turned to face his friend, whose eyes betrayed the conflict within his mind.

 

As the whips cracked and the horses cantered west to the halls of Nienna, Celebrían caught a snatch of the song rendered by the voice she remembered with a mixture of pain, regret and pleasure. Akin it was to Maglor’s melodious voice, yet it possessed not the fire to burn and renew hearts that the latter contained. She would have known the singer even if Maglor’s song had turned into a moving apology for all that had been destroyed between a father and his orphaned son.

She ignored the twinge of her guilty conscience. She would find a way to repay her debts in full. But she did not dare swear an oath on that. Oaths, as their family had discovered, were dangerously harmful in the long run. 

 

“Cease!” Manwë commanded, his stern voice testifying to his displeasure at the betrayal of the vow of silence. 

The crowds fell silent and not even hushed whispers were heard. Expectation hung heavy and solid in the sea breeze that it could be sliced through by a knife. The gale relented and the sea calmed gradually.

“The lover you spurned and the son you abandoned,” Manwë remarked as the minstrel’s heart poured out his pained regret into the song. “Will you forfeit your life to aid them, Macalaurë Fëanorion? Your brother’s influence is telling, even now.”

Maglor flinched and drew closer to his mother, his lips parted to give form to the next verse of the song. The voice from the ship that had hearkened to Maglor’s song died slowly, reflecting doubt and fear.

“Lady Nerdanel, his life is forfeit.” 

The crowds gasped as one and Maglor drew himself to his full height in defiance. His eyes shone dark and calm in the light of the stars when he turned his gaze to his mother. 

“His life is forfeit, Lord Manwë.” Nerdanel’s quiet voice rung sibilant in the silence. “But all the same, I shall stand between Mandos and my son if you will death upon him now.”

“Mean you what?” Manwë narrowed his eyes. “Celebrían’s pleading shall not save him again.”

“Tarry your judgement until you are done with Artanis.”

Maglor’s eyes widened as he realized his mother’s ploy, but when he tried to speak his disagreement, Nerdanel’s enchantment had him mute. 

“I see no profit in delaying what is inevitable,” Manwë said crisply.

Her eyes met his in a challenging stare. He frowned as the words unvoiced brought to him what she would offer for her son’s delayed judgement. 

“Thus be it.” 

Manwë turned away and fixed his glare on the ship with that tattered sails. 

 

 

The golden voice failed abruptly, and its companion petered out in dismay. Silence fell between the ship and the sands. Galadriel swore a blasphemy under her breath that would have made even the worst atheist wince. Celeborn exchanged a hapless glance with Glorfindel before walking to her side and gently turning her about to face him. She met his compassionate blue gaze wearily before offering a wan smile. 

“What now?” she asked quietly, seeming at a loss for once in her life.

“My heart tells me that he is not dead. We wait, Altáriel. We wait.” 

His soothing words wrought what nothing else could do. She nodded and stepped into his embrace, burying her face in his soft, silken robes. Not a word of protest did she utter when Celeborn drew her away to the nearest cabin, leaving behind an uneasy silence on the deck. 

Thranduil stepped forward and languidly held one of Círdan’s spyglasses to his right eye, forming a rakish picture.

“Gulls, petrels, gannets, cormorants…certainly, the seabirds don’t look drastically different from those that frequent Mithlond,” he opined.

“How came it about that you are intimately acquainted with seabirds?” Gildor asked doubtfully. “I don’t think you have visited the harbour often.”

“Just the once in my golden youth, if I don’t count the fact that I was born in Mithlond.” Thranduil stretched his limbs and shot one of his deeply meaningful glances at a flustered Círdan who was trying his level best to concentrate on the logs he had been perusing. 

“The golden youth of Thranduil Oropherion that involved Dorwinion, dances and deflowering of all and sundry,” Elrond teased his dear friend. 

Thranduil coughed and looped an arm through Gildor’s saying in that low, rich, promising voice that had lost none of its potency over the years, “Alas for me, now I am a kept man, devoted entirely to my owner’s pleasure.”

Gildor turned an intriguing shade of crimson before mumbling something irreverent under his breath and dragging Thranduil away. Glorfindel chuckled and Mithrandir guffawed. Even Círdan set aside his moroseness for bestowing a fond smile in Thranduil’s direction. The tension aboard the deck had dissipated. 

“Let us get some rest while we can.” Mithrandir looked at them balefully. 

“I agree.” Glorfindel nodded his head sagely. “Ill-rested, ill-prepared. Even you, Círdan. Set a watch and let us rest.”

“How do you think he does it so easily?” Erestor muttered, when Elrond and he had reached their cabin. Elrond was lounging against the railing, his eyes raking Erestor’s form indolently.

“He is Thranduil, after all.” 

Elrond leant forward to breathe in the scent of perspiration that clung to his companion’s throat. A swallow graced the pale neck. Before Elrond could remark on it, thin, hard, heated lips came to catch his fuller ones and slim arms of deceptive strength pulled him flush against the slender frame. Elrond parted his lips and groaned when the invading tongue explored his mouth leaving no corner unconquered by its heated devotion. He let his arms entwine about his lover’s waist, closing his eyes as their bodies bucked against each other.

“We should retire,” he whispered, trying to still the jerking of his lower body that craved to find friction.

Erestor did not reply. His lips came to engage Elrond’s in yet another of those burning kisses, stealing the words unvoiced that had lingered.

When Erestor sunk to his knees, Elrond hissed and tried to pull away. But his back was flush against the railing. He tugged at his companion’s hair in earnest, warning him silently of the utter stupidity they were engaged in. 

“Not here,” he said weakly as strong hands came to grip his waist. “The shiphands have not retired and the watch is diligent.”

The tattered sails were flailing in the night breeze even as Elrond’s robes billowed when the ties were undone by cunning fingers. His abdominal muscles clenched and drew taut as cold air and heated lips plied their craft upon the flesh. When Erestor began rubbing a cheek against the growing bulge that responded to his reckless ministrations, Elrond shuddered and let his head fall back, closing his eyes even as cold raindrops fled down his front.

Hands worked down the breeches to his ankles and his desire was exposed to the elements. He bit down on his lips to prevent those cries of wanton pleasure as a stealthy finger scratched his sac while liquid warmth delved into the opening revealed by the withdrawal of foreskin. His body arched back and he would have fallen into the sea if not for the iron grip his hands had on the railing. 

“Did you hear something?” One of those who kept watch asked from the deck. 

Sweat mingled with rain droplets as Elrond laboured under the torment of desire and fear. Fingers were cupping his scrotum and kneading it firmly, sending a frisson of white fire to all his nerve endings. 

“It must be the wind.” Another voice said after long moments. “The wind has been strange this day.”

Elrond sighed in vexed relief as the footsteps drew away. However, he was given little time to recoup for warmth swallowed his malehood and began sliding up and down. 

“Erestor!” he exclaimed softly, torn between the need to reach orgasm and the fear of being caught in the act.

When he looked down, all that he saw was dark eyes glittering with mischief and intent. He lost his trail of thoughts as fingers returned to his genitals, exploring the region with damned thoroughness. The deviousness in the eyes that beheld him gave way to solemn devotion and love. Elrond choked, overwhelmed by the physical ministrations and the unvoiced pledges that Erestor made. When the dark gaze of his lover betrayed the brilliant lustre of despair withheld, Elrond’s body fell into the abyss of passion, and his drained form slumped down into the waiting embrace.

* * *

The familiar tingle of instinct frissoned down his spine when a graceful, thin hand closed over his larger, calloused palm. He looked up to meet the calm, determined azure gaze that regarded him. The torches flickered in their brackets and the seawind rifled through the sheaves of parchment that he had been reading earnestly. 

“Will you tell me your secret, my dear friend?” she asked, and her eyes shone inscrutable and cold.

He rose to his feet and forced a reckless smile. Her full attention upon him was a risk not to be dared. He knew her. She would not rest until she had pried every secret of his being. 

“Dear Irissë knew what you were hiding, didn’t she?” She stepped closer and steel laced her voice. “She thought it for the best that it remained a secret. I wonder why.”

The fleets of her gown brushed his legs. She was as tall as he and would have intimidated him even if that had not been so, for her penetrating gaze shone with the fire of her damned house. He had never had occasion to be alone with her in such proximity. Of course, they had long known each other, early from their childhood in that distant age of gold. But they had not moved in the same circles, for even in those early days she had always been an intellectual and he, an outdoorsman. 

He spoke before she could further undermine his defences. 

“I knew Aredhel well, Galadriel. She was a close friend and a confidante.”

“Of course.” Her eyes flashed with an emotion unspoken. But he recognized it; regret. For her to feel regret, he knew fearfully that yet another choice had been made “But what is it that you hide, Glorfindel? Perhaps a folly made in the recklessness of youth?”

Then he knew that she had discerned all. He drew himself taut, prepared for her tirade. But she smiled sadly and stepped back.

“How little you know me, Glorfindel. I will not betray your secret.”

“If it would help your cause, then you would betray anything,” he said quietly. “I had never wanted you to know.”

Her eyes flashed fierce before she said dangerously, “I knew it when we first met in Lindon after your reincarnation, Glorfindel. Think you that I was foolish enough not to realize why Mandos denied you Aman? I knew and I betrayed you not.”

He gasped and stepped back. He had suspected that the extent of her perception was greater than anyone knew. Now faced with her power, he knew that he had lost.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly. “You would not have confronted me if you hadn’t wanted something, Galadriel.”

“So I am an opportunist?” she asked coldly.

“You know I have my pride though it is not as fierce as yours. Don’t make me beg, Galadriel. What do you want?” Glorfindel demanded again. 

“An oath.” 

She leant back and viewed him from under half-lidded eyes, the very picture of arrogant confidence. He hated her presumption even as he admired her daring. But there was nothing he could do. What he hid within his heart was dangerous. He nodded assent and waited warily.

“Marry my cousin’s daughter when you are reunited with her.” 

He flinched and looked away, trying to reclaim the composure that had deserted him abominably. 

“Do I ask more than you can give, Glorfindel?”

A wretched sob escaped him and he said, “You know you ask what I would have given anyway if she consented, Galadriel. I love her. I would do anything to repair my mistake that forced her to sail west.”

“So am I a cold opportunist?” Her voice held the mildest tone of sarcasm. 

He took a deep breath and said truthfully, “I have never understood you, Galadriel.” She made a low humming noise in her throat before turning to leave him to his scrolls. But he continued quietly, “Thank you.” 

When he dared to meet her gaze, he saw pity and amusement warring for dominance in her eyes. She shook her head and said wryly, “Despite popular belief, I enjoy harming others less than I enjoy harming myself. Given a choice between the two, I would always choose the second. But choice is not always granted, is it?”

With that singular statement, she left him to his thoughts. He gazed west and wondered if the woman he loved so would have him after everything that had happened. 

He heard Celeborn and Mithrandir discussing something outside his cabin. Sighing, he set aside his scrolls and strode out to join them. Instinct niggled again at his mind and he returned to pick up the last scroll he had read. His eyes widened as he perused the contents.

“Celeborn! Look what I have found!” 

 

“Elrond!” Thranduil knocked sharply on his friend’s cabin door. “Elrond, you must come!”

Sleepily, Elrond struggled to wake up. His cause was not helped by the warm body draped over his own. Thranduil’s excited voice was once again commanding Elrond to open the door. 

“Hold, Ernil nîn, I will join you in a few moments.” 

He would be a fool to forego the lazy pleasure of being twined with Erestor on these silken sheets. He let his hands play through the dark fall of his companion’s hair, parting the mane to reveal the white skin beneath. Erestor’s only response was a half-coherent string of muttering in which Elrond recognized his own name. Taking that as a good omen, he let his fingers dance on the rippling flanks of his lover, sighing as the body above arched subconsciously into his touch. 

“He looks splendid, doesn’t he?” A mischievous voice whispered in Elrond’s ear. 

He cricked his neck as he turned rapidly. The move brought his gaze level with the dancing emeralds that belonged to the most infuriating creature he knew. 

“How did you get in?” Elrond hissed, his fingers groping the bed for any clothing that he might use to conceal the sinful nudity that Thranduil was raking his gaze over with the air of a connoisseur.

“Gildor taught me a few tricks when I was bedridden not so long ago,” Thranduil replied easily, sitting down beside Elrond and running his hand through Erestor’s hair. “They come in handy every now and then. Did you sedate your lover, O wicked healer?”

“Of course I did, a mild preparation,” Elrond muttered. “He would have rushed to single-handedly build a Gondolin on sea otherwise. You know how he is.”

“If he doesn’t forgive you, you are welcome in my bed,” Thranduil said cheerily, ignoring Elrond’s dark glare. 

“What did you want with me that could not wait?” 

Elrond gently pried Erestor’s sleeping form away from him. Thranduil assisted him, with a bawdy song that did nothing to soothe Elrond’s ruffled nerves. Together they tucked a coverlet over their friend.

“Leave me privacy to dress?” Elrond asked half-seriously.

The answer came pat as expected. “Hardly anything I have not touched and tasted before, Elrond.”

Elrond chuckled as he shot a merry glance at his friend, carried away for a moment by the fond memories of their wild youth. It was hard to stay angry with Thranduil, even after all these years. Thranduil snorted in impatience and came to help Elrond with his robes, making pointed comments under his breath about old age and slow reflexes. He stepped close deliberately, intoxicating Elrond’s senses with his fresh scent.

“Elbereth!” Erestor’s voice strove to subdue the huskiness that might have been a result of sleep or equally because of vigorous activities engaged in before sleep. “Elrond, please tell me that he did not break and enter!”

“He did,” Elrond confirmed, as he swatted Thranduil’s hands away from their perch on his shoulders.

Erestor knew that raised eyebrows did not have the same effect as they usually did when the owner of the said eyebrows was still half-asleep and in such a state of dishabille. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sat up, drawing the coverlet close in an unusually prim gesture that made his friends howl in laughter. Erestor rolled his eyes before bunching the coverlet and throwing it with eerily accurate aim at the duo. He rose to his feet and stretched his limbs, smirking as two pairs of appreciative eyes drank in the sight. 

“My head complains,” he remarked, as he walked across to an open chest and rifled through the contents before emerging with a simple grey robe. “Did we drink yesterday?”

“Just the usual fare,” Elrond said. “We drank of each other most enthusiastically.”

“Bodily fluids have never caused me a headache before,” Erestor said gaily, refusing to fall prey to embarrassment, “though the same cannot be said about my poor throat.”

“You could make a warrior blush!” Thranduil exclaimed in mock horror. “Come away to the deck, sinners, and let me tell you the purpose of my errand. The air here is too compelling and I might act rashly if I continue to inhabit the same room with the two of you.”

“Something we have never contemplated before!” Erestor winked at Thranduil, who hastily beat a retreat. 

“Thranduil will think twice before breaking and entering into our cabin again,” Elrond said cheerfully before coming to help his companion locate his boots. 

“Then again, he might not,” Erestor remarked before ducking under the bed to extricate one sorry boot.

Elrond threw a lazy arm about his friend’s shoulders and pulled him closer. With the ease that only longtime lovers have with each other, Erestor melted into his hold and engaged their lips in a slow, perfect kiss. When they parted, Elrond smiled as he saw the dark flare ignited in his companion’s eyes. 

“We must go, lest he sends Galadriel to fetch us,” Erestor said regretfully.

Thranduil was waiting outside with barely suppressed excitement, his emerald eyes twinkling with such zest that Elrond forgot all about their sorry fate at once.

“Perhaps you spotted a shoal?” Erestor inquired sarcastically.

“Something equally good, my dear friend. Glorfindel will explain it all to you.”

 

Celebrían alighted from the carriage. Her spirits faltered when she looked upon the looming mansion before her that had been created before the first of Quendi had awoken on the shores of Cuiviénen. 

“Come.” Eönwë took her hand and led her forward, his expression grim and wary. She knew what he was thinking of, for her thoughts were the same.

“Nerdanel needs you. Please return,” she told him earnestly. 

“She has her son. She is not alone.” He tried to convince her though his voice betrayed despair. 

“My dear friend,” she said as she stepped closer, “Please return. I shall wait. Send Hórëon.”

He nodded and embraced her quickly before leaving. She watched the carriage recede into the distance before taking a deep breath and facing the abode of Nienna once more. If she had the time to reflect, she would have laughed at herself. Once a spoilt, headstrong young woman, she had changed into someone she no longer recognized. What would her father say?

The thought of her father made her harden her features and briskly ascend the stairs that led to the halls of sorrow. Despair and grief seemed to pervade the very air she breathed and when she entered the silent abode, a pall of gloom fell upon her subduing her will and zest. There were doors on either side of the high-ceilinged chamber and many windows. All the doors and windows were open though no breeze played in the hall.

“Lady Nienna!” she called softly, her voice refusing to disrupt the hallowed silence. 

The distant clinking of bells answered her. She looked east through one of the many windows and saw a lonely turret to the west. The bells sounded different from the merry ones that resided in Ingwë’s palace in Valmar. 

“My lady!” she called again, hesitation failing her resolve. 

The silence was broken only by the bells. Strangely, the bells seemed to contribute to the quietness. Finality; that was the music the bells danced to. 

With considerable nervousness, she walked through the nearest east-facing open door. The turret looked stern and forbidding with each step she took in its direction. 

She climbed the stairway that circled its way to the top of the turret. Facing her was a door that swung to and fro on its hinges. Bells there were in the chamber of identical shape and size, chiming bleakly in the unnatural, silent wind. The turret stood on the westernmost point of the uttermost west. 

"Nienna!" She called again, her guts tightening in instinct. 

The bells chimed their disapproval of her loudness. Taking a shaky breath, she stepped into the chamber and looked about A sudden flash of headache left her reeling and she brought her hands to her head with a gasp. Her eyes rolled up in pain and she screamed in horror as her gaze showed her a living tapestry of blood and surrender. 

She screamed again, tears flowing fast and fiery down her cheeks. Falling to her knees, she held her stomach as she retched. A single trail of crimson fell from the tapestry into the white pool of her vomit. 

The bells chimed again and her frightened mind discerned malice in their tolling. The door swung shut by itself, sealing her cries as surely as it sealed her fate. 

 

You are not your mother's daughter in spirit, are you, poor Bría? The bells taunted her. 

With a wretched sob, she gave in to her fear and shuddered as the coldness of the flagstones seeped into her skin. She would die here, she knew instinctively, and the tapestry would be extended to chronicle her end.

* * *


End file.
